


while you were forming voltron, i studied the (bey)blade

by dinosuns



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Belonging, Comedy, Developing Friendships, Dorks, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Gen, Keith (Voltron)-centric, Mission Fic, Reunions, Season/Series 04, Team Bonding, Team Dynamics, bad humour, i say... here's me wheezing writing most of this, kolivan knows he knows everything always
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 01:40:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14177793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinosuns/pseuds/dinosuns
Summary: “Keith, is that-““-Blue eyes white dragon?” Lance supplies, but he sounds unsure and it’s a blatant stab in the dark for an answer.Pressing his eyes shut, Keith provides one tidbit of information he can give that reveals nothing other than verifying that yes this is really happening and there's no way out.“It’s a beyblade.”---Unexpected downtime before his next mission leads Keith back to the paladins, and a series of extraordinarily surreal events.





	while you were forming voltron, i studied the (bey)blade

**Author's Note:**

> For day 1 of platonic vld week: (Pranks)/Tricks. 
> 
> Enjoy this absolutely ridiculous story!!

“Keith, not so fast.”

Turning to attention at the voice, one he does not expect to hear especially with those words, Keith comes to a standstill in the hallway. It’s Kolivan. The recon mission Keith’s been assigned to is scheduled to commence tomorrow after some final preparations today. But the fact Kolivan is here gives has Keith questioning that. Lips pursed, Keith raises his head dutifully.

“I’m ready,” he confirms, because he wants to make sure that’s explicitly clear. The mission is important, and Keith will give whatever it takes for this fight. “Are we leaving now?”

“No. The schedule has not changed since our last meeting.”

Confusion palpable, Keith’s brow furrows at the information. Huh. That only brings along more questions. Instead of enquiring, he waits for Kolivan to continue. Promptly, Kolivan does.

“I have a special job for you to complete before your next mission.”

There’s something Keith can’t place etched into Kolivan’s words as he talks, it only amplifies the bewilderment. The slant of those lips is a fraction too far to one side, like it’s tripped over the corner of his mouth. For someone so composed, always so presentable in a way that any diplomat would be enviable of, it’s a surprise. If Keith knew any better, he would’ve pinned it down to the kind of private amusement that goes unmentioned because nobody else could possibly understand the source of it. But before he can begin to speculate further, it’s gone and entirely untraceable.

There’s every chance under the dim blue hues of the lights above them, Keith’s eyes played tricks.

“Oh. Okay. What, uh-” Clearing his throat, Keith brings his hands to his sides. Back to business, special job. Right. Focus on what’s important. “What kind of job?”

Kolivan set it apart from his next mission, meaning it’s something of importance but perhaps not strictly official. But the fact they’re talking in a secluded hallway is unusual. This is hardly the time or place to debrief. By default, Kolivan always ensures to give blades their tasks in one of two rooms. Not a hallway where anybody could walk by and overhear. The foundations of the Blade Of Marmora are forever built on caution. Even with new alliances being forged, Kolivan endeavours to be careful in the risks they take.

That’s not always possible, though. Keith’s eyes flicker to the scar that trails down over Kolivan’s face absently, an untold story nestles there.

“One of our team miscalculated the amount of sustenance we will need on board to carry out this mission effectively. As our main reserve is running on a near depleted source, I need you to pick up the extra supplies we require.”

“Food,” Keith says blankly. He’s trying not to take offence to the simple request or let an inch of it show on his face. But the word falls off his tongue flat with a dull yet insistent smack on each consonant. “You want me to go and pick up food.”

In other words, Kolivan wants Keith to be an intergalactic delivery boy for space takeout.

“As I said, our main reserves are nearing their end. We are due to gather more shortly.” Keith wants to ask why they don’t just do that earlier instead. It makes more sense than sending one blade on a solo pickup job to who knows where. So long as it’s not the space mall, Keith thinks it’ll be alright. “Without the right nutrition, we cannot complete the mission.”

Admittedly, whilst Keith eats in the refectory each morning, and sometimes towards the end of the day too if Kolivan is watching over him particularly closely to ensure he does refuel, Keith doesn’t give thought to where the food comes from. He doesn’t spare much consideration for how it’s stored in vast enough quantities to consistently sustain every blade. And when he goes for post-mission inspections by their resident physician, Keith never stopped to wonder just how their infirmary is so well stocked and well kept.

There are other things that plague his mind when his purpose wanes in the quiet hours. As those menial and mundane parts of life creep into focus, the acts that are self-serving, Keith’s world splinters and spirals out of his hands. Being rooted in action is important, necessary. Without that momentum, that driving force propelling him, Keith is left only with static he cannot tune out and the knife strapped on his belt.

Sometimes, that motion is chaotic because it doesn’t matter where he’s going, so long as he’s going and the static is drowned out by the thudding of his heartbeat and harsh gasping breaths as adrenaline hits. No matter how clear and still the water, Keith swims to the closest edge and hauls himself out. He doesn’t give himself the luxury to wade or float.

How can he, when so many people in the universe are in need of their help right now, when so many out there are struggling under Zarkon’s empire and-

“Captain Olia has confirmed the rebels will provide us the remaining supplies we need for this mission.” Kolivan explains whilst pulling up a screen to tap into. Gaze snapping back to Kolivan, Keith nods weakly. “I’ve sent you the coordinates for the drop-off point. Once you’ve returned, load them aboard our ship.”

“I’m on it.”

“Your uniform is not required,” Kolivan says. And there is that unfamiliar curve on his lips again. It’s definitely there. Keith can see it better this time. It doesn’t add up from where Keith’s standing. “In fact, civilian clothing is more appropriate.”

Checking over the coordinates on the holo-device, Keith skims it over. Daeter - a trading moon on the outer edge of this star system. If he’s picking up food and this isn’t strictly a mission, Keith supposes it makes sense to be discreet and blend into the crowd. But that doesn’t stop the incessant swirling in his chest, not even the peculiar thought of Kolivan in different attire dispels the unpleasant sensation those words leave in their wake.

Civilian clothing.

For Keith, that’s a familiar worn red jacket, boots, a black t-shirt and pants. He hasn’t worn the clothes folded into a pile on the side of his room for a while. Each time his fingers graze the fabric, it burns. A reminder of what has been, where he’s been. Echoes of things he might not be going back to, even in space. And somewhere in the castle of lions, his paladin armour is probably folded up too. Or rather, the traditional red paladin armour. Wearing it doesn’t mean he ever truly owned it, but taking it off doesn’t mean he never pledged his soul to everything the symbol stood for.

No matter the colours he wears, he still stands for it.

* * *

There’s a queue for the moon.

An actual queue of ships. Unbelievable.

What’s more, Keith finds himself stuck in said queue in as he approaches the final stretch towards Daeter. As if he were pulling into some huge wild attraction or supermarket on earth, the ships are lined up in two lanes. Some are impatiently hovering a little too close to each other, others flicked onto autopilot to preserve some fuel. Nobody is particularly pleased to be in this position, understandably. Bright banners stream from the hovering pillars making the runway up to the moon. From what Keith can decipher, it’s welcoming guests and thanking them for the visit they have yet to make.

For a moment, Keith considers pulling an elaborate stunt and breaking out of here. But there’s no guarantee he could jump the queue. Up ahead, there’s limited visibility as they slip further away from where sunlight reaches.

So queueing it is. And as Keith crawls further through this traffic - yes, space traffic real space traffic - he drives past a plethora of signs that tell him nothing useful on how to park his ship. The signs are elaborate and the universal translator he wears has trouble untangling some of the hastily scrawled writing. Handwritten signs for parking in space. Fumbling absently in his jacket pocket, Keith feels for the handful of GAC Kolivan handed to him before take off. He didn’t understand why he’d need money at the time, now he has hindsight that amusement Kolivan wore so discreetly makes perfect sense.

No other blade wanted to do this job. Yeah. Figures.

It must be purely the traffic that’s off-putting, however. Because as far as Keith can see, everything about Daeter is a curious fusion of so many iconic science fiction films and books he skimmed through. It’s clearly a popular destination, where all sorts of aliens come to do trade and business. The outline of the moon glows in artificial lights that shift from blue to emerald. From this distance, the impression of it hovering over the surface reminds Keith of the northern lights. And just beneath that, as they inch ever closer, he can glimpse the silhouettes of great ships docked into the starport harbour. Apparently that’s where he’ll meeting the rebel - when he eventually gets there.

Somehow it’s all whimsical enough for Keith’s frustration at being sat here pointlessly to be nothing more than a dull ember beneath his skin. Unacknowledged probing heat. As the queue moves forwards enough to shift up a gear, Keith splutters on a disbelieving laugh that cracks in the horribly dry air of the ship. Of all the things he’s seen in space, of all the places he’s been to, this is one of the most surreal.

Maybe because it’s so painfully reminiscent of earth.

It’s not until twenty dobashes pass that the novelty of being stuck in his first ever space jam wears off. By this point, Keith is certain he’s absorbed all the details of his surroundings. Which isn’t that hard, considering he’s not moving further than an inch each time anymore.

Leaning against the console, Keith huffs through a poorly stifled yawn he refuses to let break over him. He hasn’t even _got_ to the drop-off zone yet, and boredom is loitering too close for comfort. He’s not sure if that’s better than letting the gnawing frustration rise up and take hold. Either way, sitting idle is not how he expected to be spending the final day before their next mission. But here he is. Letting any restless exasperation eclipse him will be grim acceptance of defeat.

“Patience yields focus.” Keith butts his head against the console, using it as a chin rest. The words come out as a low drawl, syllables slurring lazily together. “Patience yields focus...”

* * *

Patience yields focus.

Maybe so.

But in the face of having nothing productive to focus on, funnily enough it yields only impatience. That’s a bizarre loophole Keith makes sure to point out to Shiro when the time is right.

Almost one varga later, Keith finally parks up his ship and sets off on his way to the drop-off zone. The east side of the silver moon. Starport harbour is mesmerising, from the swarms of people to the plethora of street bargains and deals. The main street is built on the moon’s gaping wound. It’s an ancient crater, where large ships have docked up to fill the space where the ground suddenly plummets. Between the majestic archway of ships, the main street flourishes into life. There is no sunlight here. Daeter sits on the edge of this galaxy, unsuitable for sustaining life without the technology etched into its skin. Above them, the dim blue-emerald lights above keep them from falling into darkness. And from here, looking up into new skies, the stars are almost as beautiful and endless as they were on desert nights.

It’s quite the view, one that gets overlooked and is impossible to admire fully without a passerby barging into your side or someone accidentally being shoved into you.

This place is busy. Very.

There are stalls with tradesman waiting for business, people trying to sell all kinds of produce at every corner. Keith dodges three skewers of he-doesn’t-know-what that are almost forced into his mouth, politely declines six requests for mini dancing robots that honestly do a great moonwalk - ha, before his eyes catch sight of someone draped in a long cloak near one of the docked up cargo ships. It’s a familiar, welcomed face.

Immediately, it all pieces together. This is why Kolivan sent him specifically for this job. Lips twitching, Keith quickens his pace. Across the crowd, their eyes meet. Despite Keith navigating smoothly, the rebel waves him over and parts his side of the people-sea.

“Keith! There you are,” Matt says with a smile as they reach each other. His eyes roam over the red jacket with approval, Keith preens at that. He takes pride in this jacket, and it’s incredible how much of a relief shrugging it back on had been. “Looking good.”

“Sorry I’m late, Matt,” Keith replies sheepishly. He’s at least one varga late, that’s a lot of waiting around. Getting stuck in traffic is the kind of excuse you’d expect to hear on a morning commute on earth, not in the middle of an entirely different galaxy. “I got a little… held up.”

The smile turns into a knowing grin at that. Leaning against the crate, Matt gestures up to the enchanting starry sky. On the corners of the horizon, Keith can glimpse the end of the queue he sat in.

“You got stuck, right? Don’t worry, it happens all the time. But there’s a back way in - I’ll show you when we leave.”

Humming at that, Keith’s eyes fall to the crate. It looks like a two person job to carry, Keith wonders how Matt even got it down to the harbour in the first place. Yet alone with all these people around.

“Is this the stuff I’m picking up?” Keith taps the crate with his foot absently. He trusts Matt enough with the contents, but out of instinct to complete the task efficiently he tears off the lid to peer inside. There’s some bitter fruits that take a suspiciously long time to rot, a pile of grain-based snacks, and a whole bunch of compressed protein pouches.

“I checked it over earlier,” Matt helps Keith secure the lid with a gentle nudge.  “That should be everything you need.”

“Thanks, Matt.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Matt glances behind Keith to the bustling crowd. “We’ve still got to move it to wherever you parked without someone knocking it and us over.”

Pouting, Keith’s eyes trial across the harbour.

That's very true.

They start slow, lift the crate and ensuring it’s secure between the pair of them. Then with painfully small steps, they walk it through the crowd back to Keith’s ship. People are considerate, despite all the distractions. The majority of them move without being promoted, which makes conversation easier to slip into.

During the journey, Keith quizzes Matt on his knowledge of Daeter. The harbour is teeming with avid curiosity. Keith doubts he could explore everything even if he had a few days to spare, and this is just the east side. When Matt explains there’s a jumbo space mall to the west at least twice the size of the one Coran had taken them to once, and a popular stadium for sports Keith has never heard of, he understands the excessive queues.

Apparently, Daeter is a reliable and regular trading post for the rebels. Through the years, it has never faltered in fulfilling its purpose for them. Being frequently busy and full of trade, nothing seems out of place here. It makes out of place activity harder to track. Matt tells him that there are some security barriers to pass for bigger cargo ships, but the rebels are strategic. They’ve learnt the way this place operates and meticulously memorise every detail, enough to reap the benefits without much risk of getting into any sticky situations.

When they reach Keith’s modest ship on the seventh floor, they discover there’s just about enough space to store the crate behind the pilot seat and allow give for any emergency manoeuvres. With a weary smile, Keith slams the door shut and leans against the side of his ship. Daeter is nice, definitely. But all those people, being surrounded by strangers and pressed against them, had set every inch of his senses on edge.

Compared to the hectic rush of the harbour, the parking lot is a place of refuge. Keith parked on the upper level, giving a clear view of the sky above. Those artificial lights blend with the stars. It’s so tranquil, elusive in a way the desert never quite was. Back there, he was hounded by demons that wrestled with his composure and gnawed at every bruised bone. Here, the quiet is the product of a place full of an energy that is content. People are happy to come here, they leave happy too. That residual feeling lulls over them, keeps Keith from jumping straight back into the pilot seat and leaving.

It’s absurd to believe he could begin to make peace here. But maybe it’s a fitting backdrop to do that.

“Hey,” Matt prompts after a few moments pass. “You know that Team Voltron aren’t actually too far from here right now.”

Instantly, the languid atmosphere shatters. The words have Keith pressing back against the ship to stay upright, eyes wide. Without his suit, he finds himself unable to mask his blatant surprise. Considering they’re half a jump from Olkari, it’s not out of place. But still. Team Voltron, his former team. It’s been months since he left for the blade of Marmora. Keith can’t help be curious, enticed in a way that burns too fervently.

Since leaving the castle, things changed. Once he’d hovered on the outskirts of the inside, now he is realms away from having that luxury. With Team Voltron, Keith knows nothing of what happens. Beyond the calls with Kolivan, Keith has no idea what Voltron are up to. Be it the silly remarks Lance makes to Pidge’s inventions or Coran’s whimsical anecdotes - it’s lost to him entirely.

Despite having a comms link set up, Keith never called between missions. But then again, and this is the part that has the fire blazing dangerously close to a bundle of nerves in his chest, neither did anybody else.

“Anyways, I was planning to stop by on the way back to the rebels.” The implication is already there before Matt goes ahead and voices it clearly. Keith gets it and it has him clenching a fist tight enough for his knuckles to turn white. It’s an invitation. “You should come with me.”

Part of Keith yearns to accept and join him, another part is desperate and frantic to decline. Already, excuses and valid reasons are piling up on his tongue. It makes it heavy to swallow, and harder to form the words that offer his escape. The silence stretches, and the glee in Matt’s eyes begins to wither in realisation. Oh no. Breath hitching, Keith grapples with what to say. He has to say _something_ before Matt comes to his own conclusion. It’s not that he doesn’t want to go, not exactly.

It’s just complicated.

Everything could be different. Or it could be the same.

Keith isn’t sure which outcome is better.

“I uh…” he trails off with a sigh. Gesturing to the supplies in the ship, he shrugs helplessly. Maybe that will be enough for an explanation, without prying open parts of him he’s barely stitched back together. It’s so raw, so agonisingly raw. He can’t show them this, not when he’s so unsure of what is buried in with it.

Palm flattening against the cool metal of the ship, Keith nods. His mind is made up, for now. “I should get this back to base.”

That seems to be enough of an answer to appease Matt. He pats Keith’s shoulder consolingly, somehow sensing the rare indecision plaguing him. Once alone, Keith clamps his eyes shut and bites down on his lip. Hard. There’s too many variables here. Time has stretched their paths apart, as has circumstances. Who knows how they would react to seeing him show up unannounced.

As he gets back into the pilot seat, hands tremble around the controls. Damn this. Keith resorts to the last thing he can latch onto: fact. And the fact is that Kolivan gave him a time window of three vargas for this job. By the time Keith sets off from here, he’ll be close to exceeding that.

It’s better for the mission, for everybody, to just focus on the task at hand. Get the job done. Go back.

“Kolivan - it’s Keith,” he says quickly as the comms line opens, schooling his voice as best he can. Unfortunately, the quiver has snuck up from his hands to wreak havoc on his throat. “I’ve got the supplies. I’m heading back.”

“With two more vargas to spare I see,” Kolivan remarks.

Pulling up the details for the job, Keith frowns at the screen. Without a visual on Kolivan, Keith can’t confirm what it is he’s hearing. But it’s confusing set against the brief. The estimated duration for this trip was initially three vargas - all of which Keith has almost used up. But upon closer inspection, the duration has been amended manually - recently. No, it's been increased. Narrowing his eyes, Keith sucks in a sharp wet breath. He doesn’t need Kolivan to make special arrangements for his incompetence to complete a simple mission on time. The queue might not have been in his control, but he should’ve prepared better for a delay.

“I could’ve been there and back in three if I didn’t get stuck on the way in,” is what Keith settles for, testing the waters carefully. Something flutters in his chest he can’t stamp out. It’d be better if he suffocated it. But he can’t. Matt’s words ring too loud. The knowledge that Voltron is so close to his current location is overwhelming. Too much.

“The supplies won’t spoil, and you are in civilian clothes,” Kolivan ventures in a direction Keith cannot follow because he has no idea of the steps. “So long as you are back in two vargas to load them into the ship, there is no cause for concern.”

Again, Keith can’t follow. The journey back is only thirty-six dobashes. According to the new calculations, that leaves extra time. A lot of it.

“What-“

“I’ll see you in two vargas,” Kolivan concedes.

Before Keith can question, or even stumble painfully through expressing gratitude at what he thinks is going on here, the comms cut out. And that affirms it. With tentative smile tracing over the curve of his lips, Keith patches a message through to Matt.

“Hey Matt, change of plans.” Closing Kolivan’s brief on screen, Keith spins his ship around. “Turns out I have some time to spare.”  

The cheer Matt gives has Keith ducking his head to cover the growing swell of mirth. Despite nobody watching, he’s keen to tuck this out of sight.

“Coordinates coming your way now, see you at the castle.”

“Sounds good.”  

It does, Keith realises once charting out his next course.

It really does sound good.

* * *

There’s a tangible difference in seeing the castle of lions up close again compared to seeing it via a handful of communication calls with Kolivan by his side. Being here again, the pressure slithering down his spine and grinding his bones down amplifies tenfold. There’s a shack in the middle of the desert that called him once in whispers, in a time he had been lost and consumed by tumultuous grief. It had become a home, a familiar place Keith had poured himself into amidst so much anguish.  

The castle of lions had called him, had been a home to him too.

Maybe it still is. Keith isn’t sure. The uncertainty grows the closer he gets. This could be overstepping; he’s not a paladin anymore. Perhaps this counts as trespassing without permission. He’s parking up in hangars he has no authorisation to use, walking down hallways he doesn’t really belong in.

Even from here, Keith can sense the unmistakable presence of the red lion. And all of this is nostalgic in the most poignant and crushing of ways. There’s a deep ache in his bones that yearns desperately for what has been and gone and what never will be again. But it’s not his place to chase it, it’s not his destiny to pursue this path.

Keith is used to cosmic forces sweeping in and out of his life as they please. The aftershocks ripple violently. Constantly taking, constantly coaxing him with assurances only to shove any progress into the nearest chasm.

It might have been a mistake to come here, but it’s too late to turn back now. Besides, that desire to stay is difficult to ignore now he’s at the castle. Matt’s steered them down many hallways, delivering a handful of puns intermittently the longer the silence stretches. He’s trying his best to make Keith feel a little more at ease. It's incredibly thoughtful. 

“Welcome to where the magic happens,” Matt says with a mischievous smile as they arrive in a doorway Keith’s never seen before. It leads to a wide and circular room with a comfortable looking interior. There’s a workstation in the middle littered with odd parts and tools. Three paladins are sat around it. Keith stifles a gasp.

“Remember to wait here for my signal.”

Tilting his head, Keith pouts. He doesn’t remember any mention of a signal, especially for something as simple as walking into a room. “What signal?”

There’s no answer.

Matt leaves Keith to be an unintentional eavesdropper as he steps into the light. Immediately, his entrance catches the attention of three paladins. Pidge is the first, automatically attuned to her brother’s presence. Without glancing up, she’s waving a hand in his direction whilst typing frantically with the other on her holopad. It’s pretty impressive to be honest. From the couch, which Lance has claimed most of in order to draped his legs over, Hunk smiles warmly. Keith’s chest tightens at the sight.

“Greetings paladins of Voltron.”

With a casual salute Matt has definitely adopted from Keith without signing the permission form for full custody, he leans against the table Pidge is sat at. Unfazed, Pidge glances up.

“You’re acting weird.”

Keith agrees with that entirely. Making a cool entrance is counterintuitive when the opening statement destroys the entire facade.

“Me, weird?” Smiling, Matt shakes his head. “I’m honoured. Because you know that being normal is-”

“-Don’t finish that sentence please,” Pidge groans but her lips are upturned in a way she can’t hope to hide.

Promptly, Pidge goes back to focusing on her laptop with vigorous fast clicks. There’s a new kind of energy circling the green paladin Keith has only glimpsed before. Now it’s exuding from the tiny crinkles around her eyes, the way she holds herself. The dynamic curiosity is barley containable. Her brother’s presence brings unspoken comfort, the security of family and knowing they in turn are secure.

Perching beside Hunk, Matt clears his throat. For a moment Keith wonders if that’s the cue. But Matt continues speaking, so apparently not.

“Oh, I hope you don’t mind I brought one of my guys with me too.”

Hunk sets down the holopad he’s tapping undoubtedly complicated coding into, squinting over at the older of the Holts. There’s suspicion threaded into his brow as his lip juts out.

“Uh…  yeah. We do kind of mind. Like a lot. This is a top ultra secret base kind of deal we have going on here.” Folding his arms, Hunk lifts his head. It’s one hundred percent petty.  “Not - not everyone gets to be here I mean you have to have special clearance.” Pause. “Besides Lance-”

With an indigent cry, Lance sits up. “-Hey!”

Pidge snickers from her corner. Shrugging, Hunk continues completely unaffected. And as Keith expected, nothing has changed. Since his exit, they’re still the same.

Here this group of friends exist in tandem, tethered together by something stronger than the monsters ploughing through the starways again and again and again. There’s impossible respite from war in these corners, genuine hope that flourishes and is never stamped out. It’s nice, even as a spectator.

“I’m just saying Lance that is here cuz you know, he’s our friend and I’d take him anywhere. If I had the option to do that wherever I went then I would because he’s one of the people I love most in the entire universe -”

“Aw, Hunk! I’m getting all choked up!” Lance interjects, pressing a hand to his chest in a way that borders theatrical. But there’s a soft gleam in those eyes which catches the light a little too much when Lance slings an arm round Hunk’s shoulder to press close. As their foreheads bump together playfully, Keith’s fingers itch enough to curl against his trembling palms. There’s a casual intimacy here, and he’s intruding on it.

“So yeah,” Hunk is beaming bright as he pushes his cheek against Lance’s enough to smush their faces. It evokes the kind of serenity Keith could never find in the desert. The sand chewed at his heels as he walked, an unforgiving realm where he built a fortress from sheer resilience and endurance.

The castle is a fortress for the paladins, but Keith isn’t a paladin anymore. This isn’t a place where his walls are strengthened, ultimately it’s where they are weakened. He doesn’t want to have walls here, but he can’t let them fall. Not fully.

The two friends separate, and Hunk folds his arms. Immediately, his demeanours shifts back to something more serious.

“I’m sure this guy is probably nice and all you know, he fights in the war and he’s your buddy, but this is our hideout from… well. Everyone and everything.”

That admission surprises Keith. Perhaps Hunk doesn’t mean it so literally, or perhaps he does. There’s something vulnerable in there nobody can seem to ignore. Lance rubs the back of his neck, leaning backwards to slump back onto the sofa. Pidge keeps typing but there’s a notable lapse for a few seconds. Matt clears the tension with ease, navigating smoothly.

“Hunk. Listen, I’m kind of a big deal now in the rebels. I’ve got a bodyguard and everything. So this guy, he’s gotta stay with me wherever I go.” Matt runs a hand through his hair dramatically. “You know, for security purposes and all that.”

Rolling his eyes, Keith watches the others wear similar expressions of exasperation. He’s pushing it. Exaggeration tenfold. But Maybe Matt’s right. He is a guard. Keith doesn’t feel bitter despite not belonging. He doesn’t feel slighted, watching from the outside. Instead, there’s an urgency to protect this, to keep them and their fortress safe. That’s what has Keith stepping forward to reveal himself.

Despite the swell in his chest threatening to burst, the rising apprehension rattling his spine, there’s a twitch in his lips that curves upwards in the slightest of ways. Keith watches quietly as their eyes trail after him, mostly in disbelief. Out of all of them, Lance looks the most surprised. But pleasantly so.

“Keith?” Hunk blinks, leaping to his feet. “Is that - is that really Keith? You’re not a hologram, right? I mean, you’re actually here in the flesh and not-“

“-Keith! You’re back!” Without warning, Pidge rams into Keith’s side and tackles him with a fierce and very unexpected hug. Arms raised, Keith gazes down with wide eyes. Pidge’s firm embrace is every indication he's been missed.

“Uh…” he stammers whilst prying himself slowly out of Pidge’s hold. Moments later, Hunk is close and squeezing Keith just as tight. “Yeah. It’s me.” Pause. “Keith.”

“Welcome back, mullet,” Lance slings an arm over Keith’s shoulder. He honestly wasn’t expecting such a welcome. Judging by the satisfaction on Matt’s face, Keith has a suspicion this has somehow been meticulously orchestrated. Or perhaps he's reading too much into that look. 

“So what brings you here, man?” Hunk asks curiously, settling back down on the couch.

“I already told you,” Matt says with a sly grin. “He’s my bodyguard.”

That instills some laughter between them.

Turning to Matt, Keith delivers his best deadpan. “Very funny.”

“Yeah - hilarious!”

Nobody laughs. Lance visibly deflates.

“Actually - I was just passing through,” Keith explains as the focus drifts back to him without any prompting. He shuffles closer awkwardly. Gosh. This is as hard as he thought it would be, if not more. Ever perceptive, Lance frowns and pats the space beside him. There’s no way that can mean what Keith thinks it does.

“At least sit down for a minute, man.”

Keith prods the seat to inspect it. Suspicious. He can’t help but be doubtful. Their bickering has been dormant for months, but the remnants are easily stringing back together.

“What did you do to it?”

Snorting, Pidge glances between them in amusement.

“What? Can’t a guy just be nice and offer his former rival a seat?”

“We were never rivals.” It’s exasperating. But this is not the time and place to talk about that part of their relationship.

“Oh come on, Keith! Have a little trust in me! Back on earth I was an amazing host, you know. I was always left to razzle dazzle the guests.”

Keith blinks pointedly. Twice.

The implication that he’s a guest, that he doesn’t really belong here in this picture, stings more than he’d like to admit. Maybe Lance didn’t mean it like that, but it’s what Keith hears.

“Where’s Shiro?” He asks as he sits, sucking in his bottom lip.

“He and Allura are checking over the refugee programme on Olkari,” Pidge supplies. Frowning, Keith sinks into the seat at the news. That sort of job will take time, there’s no way he’ll catch them. “Coran is on the bridge keeping watch.”

“Okay. Well, I should probably just-“

It happens so fast. As Keith goes to stand, Lance swivels to block him with his legs. It’s so well orchestrated that Keith momentarily gawks.

“What are you doing?”

“You just got here, man.”

Barricaded in by the blue paladin, Keith nudges the legs off his lap, only to be insistently pushed back by them once more. Scowling, Keith taps Lance on the leg. He’s not going to make this messy. But they’re both too stubborn and stand their ground in times like this.

“Lance,” he hisses. “Get off me.”

“Nope. You can’t leave until you say the magic word.”

“I’ll show you the magic word!” It lacks any real bite, instinctive pointless dialogue born from nothing but mild irritation.

“Oh yeah?” Lance taunts, wiggling his legs.

“Yeah.”

Just as Keith climbs ridiculously across the couch to freedom, his entire world stops. Because there’s the unmistakable clang of something falling. Glancing down, Keith winces. His left fanny pack, worn and torn from years of good use, finally decides this is the prime moment to call timeout and betray him. Out falls a well-kept secret.

“Uh… What is that.” Hunk punctuates each word precisely, staring down at the evidence Keith can’t hope to hide when he’s awkwardly straddling the top of the couch. “Is everybody else seeing this or is it - is it just me?”

Oh no. No. This is it. This is the day where-

“-Keith! Oh my god!” Pidge leaps up from her chair animatedly. Immediately, Matt mimics her. The pair of them lean over the item on the ground.

“Is that-“

“-Blue eyes white dragon?” Lance supplies, but he sounds unsure and it’s a blatant stab in the dark for an answer. Hopping over the couch, Keith picks the item up. Nobody is laughing, but it’s only a matter of time. He doesn’t owe an explanation, but it’s already sitting on his tongue and burning away his resolve to keep quiet and act almost like a third party to his own untimely demise. It’s potent.

Pressing his eyes shut, Keith provides one tidbit of information he can give that reveals nothing other than verifying that yes this is really happening and there's no way out. 

“It’s a beyblade.”

The translucent beyblade with red attack armour and the coolest dragon firebird hybrid Keith has ever seen had been appealing to him as a kid. It still is now, to be honest. One of his many foster families had spent their first day with him taking him to a nearby toy store. Eight year old Keith had never been in a place like that before. With eyes full of curiosity, the sheer awe and wonder difficult to suppress, Keith had settled on the beyblade the second it came into focus.

Unfortunately, that foster family had lasted less than a week. As if he himself were a toy, Keith had been returned. Unwanted and discarded. The novelty wore off and when it had all that was left was a frustrated child riddled with unspoken trauma and fears that manifested as passionate intensity mistaken so often for anger. Keith was angry, it stewed inside him and carved itself into his bones. But it seemed to be all anybody on earth could ever see. Trouble. Difficult.

Unlike a toy, there was no instruction manual for Keith besides the words that he spoke to give context. And nobody besides Shiro had the right to that context. So it just never happened.  

It hasn’t been stealing, technically. The beyblade had been in his room when that familiar face appeared in the doorway from the foster services. She always wore a kidney dewy smile but Keith never looked to see if it reached her eyes - he had been too used to the constant disappointment of finding with most people it didn’t.

The beyblade is cool, even now.

When it spins, the red glimmers against the clear body. It’s soothing in a way Keith can’t describe, to be the person responsible for starting its motion and watching it carve its own path with that momentum. As it spins, it’s unafraid and unashamed.

Then gracefully, when its purpose is completed, it comes to a stop. It had been a reminder, that even if people continuously dwindle his chances of succeeding, continuously misjudge his character and cast him aside, he could assume control of his speed. Maybe not the direction, because he had still been a kid. And even when he wasn’t aimless, turbulence built him a pyre in the sand and set the sky on fire as it waited for the two corners of the horizon to darken each night.

Speed was one variable he could mould to his own design - it had been a surprisingly grounding realisation..

Anyway. Primarily, the reason he still has the beyblade is because it's pretty cool. Back on earth, they hadn’t exactly had time to pack - or in this case unpack.

Pidge’s eyes are wide not with curiosity but excitement she can hardly contain. She’s practically vibrating with the energy, hands bunched tightly to her chin. Finally she crumbles as Keith goes to put the beyblade in his pocket. Diving forwards, Pidge yanks it into her hands to inspect with a giddy reverence reserved often only for new technology.

“Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh, Keith. It’s not just a beyblade, it’s a Dranzer-s H-91 model!”

At those words, Matt avidly leans over to get a better look. “What? No way. Are you sure?”

“This is it! Matt - this is the model it has to be, look at the markings on the side and the design of the body. Then there’s the red armour and the shape.” Suddenly, Pidge is alarmingly close and grabbing Keith by his arms. “Keith where did you get this I have to know - was it at the space mall?”

“No I-...” Keith averts his gaze. “I got it on earth.”

“You brought your tamagotchi to space?” Lance snorts from the sidelines.

Before Keith can respond, the yellow paladins speaks up.

“Wait wait wait. So these spinning top things, they’re called beyblades?”

“Yeah,” Keith confirms, glancing at the toy in Pidge’s hand.

“And the word blade definitely is in there. I mean, this isn’t some kind of fancy language trick the word definitely is spelt blade like b-l-a-d-e, right?”

“Yeah…” Pidge ventures, lips pursed and mind reeling to try and decipher Hunk’s direction here with little success. Keith can’t see it either. Folding his arms, he raises an eyebrows.

“So what?”

“So,” Hunk brings a hand to his mouth and _giggles._ With a shrug, Lance catches Keith’s eye. Noting the bemused quiet, Hunk resorts to explaining. “Blade. Beyblades. Keith is a blade and - and he has a beyblade. It’s funny. Get it?” The giggling morphs into stronger bouts of laughter this time. But it’s not malicious. Keith still musters his best unimpressed expression at the joke.

“I get it.”

“Kangaskhan,” Lance counters as if that somehow is a triumphant win in an undecided game. Once again, it’s the wrong media.

With a pinch in his brow, Keith looks over.

“Do you even know what we’re talking about or are you just gonna keep throwing random names around?”

To prove the point, Lance straightens his back and utters one word. But there’s a curve to his lips Keith missed before which indicates that whilst he may not have a clue about beyblades he is absolutely doing this on purpose. “Agumon.”

It’s a stalemate. And Lance is looking at Keith in a way that’s teasing, but softer than it’s ever been. It’s the kind of look reserved usually for Hunk and Pidge. Keith doesn’t know how to handle it, how to process that and all it means. He averts his gaze quickly, head bowed.

“Pidge and I used to collect these,” Matt admits with a smile that’s not even sheepish. He’s not at all embarrassed about it. If anything he’s proud. “And we spent years looking for that model.”

“Do you wanna see some tricks?” Keith says before he can stop himself. Oh no. No. _Why did he say that why-_

“Show us,” Matt insists, handing the beyblade back to Keith. Okay. Right. So this is really happening.

“This one’s called Dark Shadow Slice.”

Lance makes a noise behind him that sounds suspiciously like the start of a facetious comment. Only it’s followed quickly by an indignant ‘ow’. But Keith doesn’t look over his shoulder to where the blue and yellow paladin are standing. His attention is on the Holts entirely as he pulls out the launcher. Pidge’s grin splits her face open, eyes wide and full of untameable mirth.

That merely spurs Keith on. He puts the beyblade into position. Then with one smooth flick of his wrist, he releases it with as much force as he knows the cord can endure. As the beyblade releases, Keith angles the launcher. When it lands, it skates expertly across the table.

“Woah…” Matt breathes in sheer awe. He is just one of the many collective gasps across the room, as if Keith has actually been juggling multiple swords whilst breathing fire on a pogo stick.

“Okay I know literally nothing about this and what you just did but that…” closing his eyes, Hunk presses a hand over his chest. “That was awesome.” And then, interest piqued, he’s spewing all his enthusiasm in Keith’s direction.

“Can you - can you do that Dark Shadow Slice move anywhere? Like can you just ‘let it rip’ and make it land wherever you want?”

Well, Hunk really said it. Let it rip. Keith is probably going to have so many regrets later when he’s back at the Base and Kolivan asks him how he spent those two extra vargas of time and all he can think of is _Dark Shadow Slice._ But right now, he’s too caught up in the avid curiosity of the others, their willingness to listen to this and _indulge him_ has spurred this on to a point he knows not even Shiro could tug him back from.

He’s not showing off to his former team about a beyblade, absolutely not - he’s just full to the brim with a rare giddiness that won’t stop growing with their constant encouragement.

“Heh,” lips twisting into a grin that doesn’t cease despite his best efforts to smother it, Keith picks the beyblade up again. “You bet I can.”

The dam is broken, now he can’t stop. Keith starts talking them through some of the other moves he’s practiced when the desert had been unforgiving and the days led him nowhere real fast. After demonstrating Phantom Sunfire, a launch that is done entirely by hand, Keith shows them Burning Beak. At this point, he’s unsure how much time has passed.

“Last one,” he announces. “This is Ultimate Winged Torpedo of Doom-“

And that’s the catalyst.

“I can’t take this anymore!” Lance cries out suddenly with a huff, cradling his head in his hands as he stares in a wide-eyed frenzy at the beyblade. He simultaneously looks like a man cursed and possessed by its power. Surprised, Keith blinks. Well, that came out of nowhere.

“Keith.” Rubbing his temple, Lance groans. He sounds deeply conflicted. “How are you this cool?! Even now! You’re standing here doing all these fancy tricks with a Betblade-“

“-Beyblade,” Pidge corrects smoothly, adjusting her glasses. Lance continues undeterred, voice raised and cheeks flushed. But the curious part is none of that heat is directed at Keith. He’s scolding himself.

“Whatever it’s called! But you know what the worst part is?” Gesturing to the beyblade wildly, Lance inches closer. He looks like he’s at war with himself and the part he didn’t want to admit is currently entertained just won. “I can’t look away! It’s amazing. So if this is the last one it better be good!”

That’s all Keith needs to hear.

He knows this one is his best, it’s why he saved it for last. It’s impressive, especially for a beyblade. Ultimate Winged Torpedo of Doom is a move Keith only managed to pull off once in the solitude of the sand. It had been a mistake for the most part, figuring out that throwing a beyblade and propelling the spin by hand required a similar technique to throwing his knife. It’s less about the landing, more about what happens in the air if he gets this right. This moment stretching between them has all the intensity of a rocky movie’s final fight, the thrumming anticipation that builds into the chorus of ‘Eye of the Tiger’.

Keith throws the beyblade up in the air, twisting to send it into a series of flips. So far so good. Everyone holds their breath. As the beyblade descends, time itself seems to slow.

When the beyblade lands against all odds _still spinning_ s, the room erupts with jubilant cries that are definitely out of place for the situation. Matt falls to his knees enthusiastically as Pidge holds out a palm to Keith. Bumping his fist gently against it, Keith grins. He’s never been a high-five kind of person, but he can adapt if it means Pidge keeps looking so sincerely thrilled.

Lance is inexplicably tearing up and Hunk is applauding passionately. The whole thing is hyperbole and entirely ridiculous. The beyblade is still spinning. As Keith listens to their conjoined shouts and cheers he throws his head back without reserve. It’s so easy to forget where they are, to latch into this absurd surreal feeling and laugh. So he does. It’s enough for him to almost double over, grabbing his stomach with one hand. Fortunately, the others are too busy laughing themselves onto the ground and cheering to notice.

Against the backdrop of a ruthless war, sometimes it’s the little things that can induce such strong and contagious emotions. Sometimes. it’s Keith acting like a kid on a skateboard trying desperately not to trip up as he impresses his friends with tricks. Only the skateboard would’ve been infinitely cooler.

As the beyblade comes to its final spin, the misplaced enthusiasm dwindles. Slumping against the arm of the couch, Matt catches his breath.

“That was… so cool.”

“Hm,” Keith hums absently, chest warm and lips tingling. Laughter still tickles the corner of his mouth. “I’ve never shown anyone that stuff before,” he admits in the unfolding hush.

“Keith,” Pidge starts. The tone of her voice has Keith’s attention snapping back fully. It’s uttered so quietly, with reluctance uncharacteristic for Pidge. Catching her glassy eyes confirms it. She’s nervous and it’s concerning. “It’s good to see you.”

The statement is a leading one, and this is going somewhere. Keith just can’t tell where. Nodding weakly, he averts his gaze. Then comes the words she’s evidently been churning over for some time.

“Sorry we never called you.”

“It’s fine,” Keith replies, hastily trying to get away from this subject. Especially as Pidge looks uncomfortable, unsure of what she wants to reap by bringing it up. Lance is suspiciously quiet on the other side of the room, watching him intently. Hunk looks ready to draw Keith into another hug which isn’t allowed because Keith can feel the choked sob brewing in his throat too big and too raw to swallow down. If he talks now, this is going to be cataclysmically terrible. For everyone.

Standing abruptly, Keith gestures to the doorway. This time, Lance’s legs aren’t there to block his exit.

Or so Keith thought.

Marching over, Lance petulantly reaches into the fanny pack around Keith’s waist. Startled, Keith can only watch wordlessly as the blue paladin retrieves the beyblade.

“What are you doing?” Keith asks, genuinely mystified. The raps in his voice gives too much away.  

“What does it look like, mullet?” Lance petulantly replies. Clicking his tongue, Keith folds his arms. He makes it so easy to fall into their routine. “I’m taking this. Then next time you’re here, I’ll give it back to you. But only if you’re here in person.”

“How else do you expect to give it back?” Pidge leers from the corner, fully recovered and back to Snark Central.

“Oh can it Pidgey, I’m drawing up a very important deal here!” Staring Keith down, Lance quirks an eyebrow. A silent challenge.“Do you accept?”

With a few hard blinks he hopes subdues the unwanted moisture in the corners of his eyes, Keith purses his lips. He hears exactly what Lance is saying, it’s just difficult to fully process.

“Yeah I- I guess.”

“Sorry what’s that?” Lance leans forwards in a way far too smug. Deepening his voice he does what can only be the worst impression of Keith in existence. “You’re cutting out I can’t - I can’t hear you.”

Keith recognises the words immediately, narrowing his eyes. It’s audacious.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m serious Keithy.”

Keithy. Now he’s just being obnoxious. Lance always knows exactly how to push Keith’s buttons and never fails to press insistently until he gets a reaction. Outstretching his arms in exasperation, Keith’s voice cracks under the strain. It’s better than being crushed by the things stirring inside him.

“Fine! I- I’ll come back for it, okay?” _I’ll come back._  “Satisfied?”.

Examining the beyblade with feigned disinterest, Lance shrugs as nonchalantly as possible. It’s clearly a farce considering his enthusiastic outburst earlier. “For now.”

“Uh huh.” Keith isn’t buying it, but he’ll pander to this just once.

Their eyes meet, and the genuine affection there is certainly a surprise. Maybe time did them both some good. The roots are stronger, less tangled.

“Anyway. Kolivan needs those supplies so -“ a breathless laugh escapes Keith. This whole day has been interesting. From getting stuck in traffic in space, to performing beyblade tricks. Averting his gaze, Keith takes a step back. It’s a little overwhelming how all eyes in the room are locked on him.

“Time to go.”

With a causal salute that is far from an easy gesture to pull off, Keith makes his way to the door. He has to leave, before he has a chance to take in their expressions,, the feelings that he cleaved out and put there on display just by being here-

“Don't get too comfortable at the top, Keith.” Matt’s words are ominous, paradoxical in the sense they are just too serious to be taken seriously. “Next time, we’ll be ready.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Keith raises an eyebrow incredulously. Matt says nothing.

“Yeah!” Lance adds, always up for a chance of competition, especially with Keith. It seems that hasn’t changed despite other things shifting in their time apart. “Don’t forget our deal. And next time you’re back we’ll have our own beast that will beat your beyblade!"

“Congratulations,” Keith attempts to sound unaffected, but he’s not fooling anyone. The facade is abundantly clear. “You finally got it right.”

Matt and Pidge exchange amused glances, Hunk stifles a laugh as Lance splutters. That’s the perfect cue for an exit. Steeling himself, Keith starts walking.

He makes it two steps, before poking his head back through the door.

“Hey, Lance.”

There’s something important he has to say. It absolutely cannot wait until this ‘next time’. Keith can’t chance it, he has to stamp this out immediately before it escalates. _Keithy_.

“Don’t ever call me that again.”


End file.
